


Sentimental

by pickedaxe



Series: hamuhiga [3]
Category: JUDGE EYES: 死神の遺言 | Judgment
Genre: ??? - Freeform, Abusive Relationships, Anal Sex, Communication Failure, Conditioning, Creepy Fluff, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mutual Pining, Possessive Behavior, Power Imbalance, Semi-Consensual, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:20:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22760854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pickedaxe/pseuds/pickedaxe
Summary: Kind of sickly-sweet.
Relationships: Hamura Kyohei/Higashi Toru
Series: hamuhiga [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1489466
Comments: 1
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Relatively calm, but please read the tags.

Looking in the mirror, Higashi dabbed fresh antiseptic on the cut near his chin. It had still been moist, oozing a little blood when he'd peeled off the bandage he'd hastily slapped on last night before stripping down to his boxers and falling into his futon. It must have been deeper than he'd thought, but still not worth going to get checked out. He reapplied a fresh one, as neatly as he could, turning his face diagonally to find any other scrapes he might have missed. 

There were a few dark bruises, too, peppering his abdomen, the source of the low droning ache buzzing throughout his body. He opened the medicine cabinet behind the mirror and stuck a few aspirin in his mouth, using a cupped handful of water to swallow. That would buy him a couple hours, at least. While he waited for it to kick in, he continued his routine.

It was strange. Every time he looked at himself, he expected to see some obvious, fundamental difference, as if his features themselves, not just his expressions, would have changed. But that face was still his, only drawn and scowling, the brand new cut adding an aura of further danger. He had become the kind of person someone, a woman, perhaps, walking alone, might cross the street at the sight of to avoid brushing past. New bruises, a new suit, a new scowl. But even if he stripped them all away again, he wouldn't be able to go back.

He applied the pomade to his hair, carefully preening with his fingers before combing it, pushing it up a little in the front, patting it down in the back, in perfectly mechanical routine. This, at least, had stayed the same.

The rest of him was covered in Hamura’s fingerprints. His clothes, appearance, duty, lifestyle, schedule. There was not one identifiable part of his life that was free of his influence. And he had let it happen. 

It’s natural to choose what’s comfortable. It’s human to take the safer, softer option, when given a choice. There are exceptions, of course, the foolhardy few who so bravely toss themselves at their own destruction. They flare up and out, and people might call it noble, but it’s not any way to live. You can’t sustain it. And in the end, even a violent self-driven collapse is just another way to avoid getting hurt. 

Higashi was not and is not exceptional. 

Letting Hamura define him is comfortable, and if he lulled himself with it long enough, his desires would soon - have already - become indistinguishable from Hamura's will. 

He finished up in front of the mirror and retrieved his suit, starting to get dressed. It was getting colder outside. Yesterday, the temperature had dropped dramatically, unusually so for how early it was in the season. He had grabbed his old over-jacket before he went out, looking it over quickly in the mirror, and he hadn’t been able to help a small, deprecating laugh. It had obvious wear, colors fading and material tatty and thin. It couldn’t have been more incongruous hanging over his suit, paired with the flashing gold around his neck and the shining studs in his ear. 

It had especially clashed with Hamura’s newest present, a fancy watch that he’d been afraid to look up the price for. He couldn’t remember doing anything especially good recently, so it had made him nervous to accept it. But Hamura had been good-humored, emanating a controlled sense of pleasure through the tight smile on his lips. 

He’d shown it to him, still in the box, face gold and gaudy but with a surprisingly tasteful dark leather band. Even so, he was sure there was no way he could pull it off. But after putting it on and checking himself out in the wide, full length mirror hanging in Hamura’s apartment, however, it suited him much better than he would have thought.

Appearance wasn’t the only problem, though. People were really going to think he had a lot more money than he did. Start asking him to pay for drinks and shit. But he had no choice but to wear it, at least where Hamura would see him, so that was that. 

He had thanked Hamura repeatedly, awkward in his attempts to show a commensurate amount of gratitude. As expected, it was easier to show with his body than with words. 

The sudden cold snap showed no sign of relenting today. The coat was at the back of his closet, hanging with the old gray suit, never to be touched again.

_Hamura would buy me a new coat, if I asked._ The thought floated through his mind, irresponsibly, and he chased it away, almost embarrassed. If Hamura wanted to buy him gifts on his own, for whatever strange sense of satisfaction it gave him, then fine. But he wasn’t about to start hanging on his arm and begging for things like some desperate hostess. Every small scrap of dignity he still retained should be closely guarded. 

He would do his best again today to resist a shiver when the wind cut through his suit.


	2. Chapter 2

Today they were at Hamura’s apartment, as usual, Higashi trying to drink just enough to relax, but not enough to actually get _drunk_. 

He took another somewhat reserved sip, feeling its heat as it slid down his throat to settle in his stomach. One thing he could say about coming here was that he was never lacking in top shelf drink. 

He could just see Hamura’s back as he fixed himself another one, white tracksuit shiny in the harsh artificial light of the kitchen. 

Higashi stirred restlessly in his seat on the couch, then stole a glance at his phone. His subordinate had texted him to tell him he’d locked Charles up. He took a moment to read it, shooting back a quick acknowledgment, and pressed the button to lock the screen. By the time he was done, though, Hamura had already sidled up to him, wordlessly grabbing the phone out of his hands.Sometimes Hamura still made him do it, but this time he punched in Higashi's password himself, long since memorized. 

It was Hamura’s habit. Once, several months ago, he’d smashed Higashi’s old phone in a fit of rage and paranoia. He probably knew most of the information that had been on it could be recovered, tied to accounts and passwords rather than hardware, but he was sure it was more about making a point than actually preventing anything. 

It had hurt. One more thing he couldn’t have. One more thing taken away from him and replaced in order to align with what he needed to be now. Neither Higashi nor Kaito had been that wild about taking pictures, but there had been a few on there, enough to fill in the little gaps when it got too difficult to remember his face. Old text messages, stupid, misspelled, about almost nothing, small threads connecting him to a carefree past. Back then, he’d fantasized about reaching out and reconnecting just like that. A few taps were all it would have taken. But it had felt dangerous, and fear had been so constant a companion then that he hadn’t been able make a move. 

And Kaito hadn’t tried to reach him, either, not once since the last time he saw him that day in the office, and now it seemed to say everything there was to say about it. 

He was kind of glad Hamura had done it, now. He’d started over fresh, on the new one Hamura had gotten him. Hamura would still take it, every once in a while, and dig through everything, looking for some sign of disloyalty, he supposed. He never found anything.

He stared down at the glass he held, condensation wetting his hand, and took another sip. He glanced over at Hamura, watching him scroll and tap for a minute or so longer before he thrust it back at Higashi.

“You kids are too addicted to these things,” he said, sounding so much like a normal, crotchety old man that Higashi’s mouth twisted up at the corner, just for a moment, amused. 

“ _This_ tells time, too, ya know,” he grumbled, grasping at Higashi’s wrist to play with the thick leather band of the watch. 

He was, strangely, nearly endeared, and didn’t bother to correct his assumption. If only he could just isolate this Hamura, freeze him here, a few drinks in, in a good mood, relaxed and almost playful. It was the side of him that brought him closest to a real person, he thought. 

“I keep forgetting it’s there,” he admitted honestly. Hamura’s fingers moved from his wrist to the backside of his hand, rubbing circles over his bruised knuckles.

“You really did get in a fight,” he mused. 

“Yeah,” he replied, and the alcohol settling in his stomach smoothed the worry that he was being too casual. 

Of course, the first thing Hamura had questioned when he’d arrived at his apartment were the obvious marks on his face and the bruises peeking out from that sliver of exposed chest. He explained, at least two times, that he’d happened upon a gaggle of drunks who’d been stupid enough to pick a fight with yakuza, emboldened by the fact they outnumbered them, he assumed. Or maybe it was his juniors that had picked the fight, but either way, he’d stepped in, and together they’d cleaned up pretty handily. It wasn’t the first time he’d done something like that, but it was the first time it had gotten so violent. He’d really let loose, too, taking on two at once -- and _winning_. He felt a tiny sense of pride knowing those guys had woken up in that alley looking at least twice as bad as he did now. Should’ve taken a picture as proof. 

Anyway, it wasn’t like he’d sustained any terrible injuries. Kengo went around looking like this more than half the time, too. But Hamura had looked at him, eyes slitted in suspicion, peeling the now-worn bandage he’d put on this morning back to inspect the crust of dried blood and red inflamed skin around it, like it would tell him something. He had worried it had put Hamura in a bad mood, but he’d mellowed out after a drink or two.

Hamura had pushed back the band of the watch a little now, brushing over his wrist softly. It felt too oddly intimate, and Higashi, barely thinking, interrupted the silence.

“Captain,” he began, and stopped. He might have been drinking too fast, at the beginning, nervous at Hamura’s attitude, and now he couldn’t remember if this was his second or third glass. 

“Hmm?” He rolled his eyes lazily upward to look at Higashi. 

“I was just wondering…” a pause, hesitation - he could be making a huge mistake, the nagging voice at the back of his mind chided. 

“Why do you…” He trailed off, waited too long, and did his best to recover.

“Why did you buy me that? The watch,” he finished, lamely. It wasn’t what he’d really meant to ask - he’d chickened out at the last second. Despite his spike in heart rate, his voice had only trembled a little. 

Hamura’s thumb pressed hard against his wrist for barely a second, then he let go, expression relaxing into that easy grin of his, dripping sleaze.

“‘Cause I like looking at it on you.”

He supposed his reasoning made sense, for the kind of man Hamura was. The small sense of disappointment it gave him he quickly suppressed. 

It had occurred to him recently that Hamura dressed and lived relatively simply compared to the kind of cash Higashi now knew he was pulling in. It did make him nervous, embarrass him, though, that he bothered to spend any of it on Higashi. Even if it was only on a whim.

Still, he obviously put most of it towards the family, rather than himself, and that he could truthfully say he admired. Without him, the family, and Higashi, couldn’t even exist. It created an almost odd gap between Hamura’s extreme displays of egocentrism and the ferocious way he continued to protect the Matsugane family. 

Yes, in an abstract sense, Hamura was everything he should strive to be. Confident, powerful, feared and admired by all of his subordinates. If things had been different, maybe if he’d never clung to Kaito, he could have come under him, and loved him for that strength. 

He allowed the fantasy to unfold. Hamura guiding him from day one. Forcing him to face his fears, to fight, to risk everything for Hamura’s sake and enjoy his protection in return. In that scenario, they might have had real trust, _shared_ trust, two way streets and everything. He might have harbored a small love for him, secret and unrequited, of course, but at least it would have been genuine, for whatever that was worth. 

The thought was unexpectedly painful. No matter how much Hamura lavished on him, no matter how indulging he was, no matter how much he played at tenderness, he was doomed to be his toy and nothing else in what was becoming more and more of a permanent arrangement. What was the point in keeping it up? 

And yet, as long as Hamura kept calling him, he’d keep coming. 

“Captain…” he began carefully. “Should we go to the bedroom…?”

He tried to sound coquettish and seductive, but it apparently didn’t quite hit. Hamura’s fingers trailed away from his wrist.

“Impatient, huh.” He half-laughed, going back to his drink. “You got somewhere to be?”

Hamura’s eyes were sharp, darting to observe him out of the corner of his eye. The man was a knife that could be at your throat in an instant. 

“No,” he tried to stay steady, but couldn’t quite look at him when he teased the words from his tongue. 

“I mean… I guess I am a little impatient.” He offered a nervous laugh, to no response.

Hamura was really staring now. He glanced up long enough to try to gauge his expression, but it was nigh unreadable. 

The squeeze of anxiety in his chest produced some bright impulse to follow through, putting his limbs into action. He came up close to him, daringly placing a hand on his thigh, the smooth material of the tracksuit glossy against his hand.

“Can I?”

He still asked for permission, because servicing him unasked still felt too bold, too suicidal. He could almost physically feel the silence, Hamura’s glare, in several overly long moments of tension.

No, he realized all of a sudden. Hamura surely didn’t want this. Higashi’s input was wholly unnecessary. Even if he demanded Higashi tell him how much he wanted it, like he did every time, he only did it because he could _make_ him. He was really an even bigger idiot than he’d thought, imagining he had some say in how Hamura felt about him at any given moment. What Hamura wanted from him was quiet acceptance, pure obedience and nothing else. Towards him, he should be unchanging, even as he pushed him to drastic overhauls in every other area of his life. 

Hamura grabbed his wrist just as he tried to jerk away, horrified at his own stupidity. 

“I’m sor--”

“Show me, then.” 

The look Hamura gave him was unexpectedly serious, fingers loosening their grip. 

His heart fluttered, stupidly, in his chest. 

"Yes," he replied.

Hamura hardly ever beat him now, because he hardly ever disobeyed now. This torment had moved beyond the physical. But he had continued to keep him under his thumb with single-minded determination. Watching him, always. Like he was afraid that if he took his eyes off of him for one second, Higashi would betray him. It didn't make any sense, that insecurity. They both understood that betrayal would mean signing his own death warrant. 

Picking up on that anxiety, though, had made Higashi wonder, and allow himself foolish ideas. 

His hand brushed tentatively over the front of his pants. He was already a little hard, probably from the alcohol, and maybe the proximity. 

Higashi let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding and went a little further, grasping him through the fabric and stroking him a few times. He stole a glance at Hamura again, who didn’t look particularly impressed. More on guard, really, and he was almost cowed into stopping again. 

But, he reasoned, if he really didn’t like it, he could just tell him to cut it out, right? So he continued, sidling down to kneel on the floor in front of him, filling the space between his spread legs. 

He cradled his cock with both hands, almost tenderly stroking either side, warming him up. A little more, and he could tell he was starting to feel it, even if he was trying to remain stoic. His breathing was coming faster, and the outline of his erection was quickly becoming obvious through the thin fabric. 

Higashi leaned in, impulsively opening his mouth and sucking at the tip through the fabric, wetting it with spit. He lingered there for a moment before backing off, tongue striping over the bottom and raising his eyes back to Hamura. He breathed out -- it felt so daring he was more than just a little embarrassed, and if that hadn’t done anything for him, he really was going to give up. 

Hamura’s expression had changed. There was interest there, now, passive curiosity turning into active desire. Higashi’s nerves sparked with the pleasant feeling of approval, filling him with a surprising hunger for more. 

“Who taught you to be such a whore?”

Despite the insult, his tone was fond, not punishing, and he reached down to push a stray hair out of Higashi’s face, resting heavy for a moment on the top of his head. The sensation had no right to be that comforting. 

“You did, sir,” he breathed out, emboldened. Hamura chuckled. Higashi felt warm, excited, even though he was practically trembling. 

"Damn right."

He stood, hastily unbuckling and dropping his pants and underwear, only his socks remaining (should have done it before, stupid), then immediately leaning in, knees on either side of his lap, sinking down, hand on Hamura’s shoulder to steady himself. 

He squeezed Hamura’s erection lightly between his thighs, looking at him for his reaction, his approval. He’d been scared before, but now, now that he could see the growing greed in his eyes, he strangely didn’t want to look away. Did he always look like this when he had him? He seemed almost...desperate. 

He imagined it could mean something. He imagined that he had some unknown quality that kept Hamura hungry, kept him coming back. He imagined that he could be special, even if it wasn’t true. 

He was then filled with a sudden urge to deny him. Wouldn’t it be something, if Hamura begged him for it instead. Admit that he wanted it, needed it, make him flatter or cajole his way into having Higashi’s young body, so used to his by now. 

Of course it was pure fantasy. Unreachable in the real world. Hamura would never debase himself by begging or pleading. Not when he could simply take. 

Hamura’s hands roamed, chasing the brief sick drop in Higashi’s stomach away, one squeezing hard at Higashi’s ass, the other, base of his palm grazing right above his dick before sliding under his shirt, pulling it up with him. 

Higashi let out an uneven breath. He realized he was getting there himself, pressing himself unconsciously against Hamura’s thighs, their erections rubbing together to give him the barest amount of friction. He wanted more. 

“Higashi…” it wasn’t quite a moan, a breath tumbling out as he got increasingly worked up. “What’s gotten into you, huh…?” 

He leaned in, resting his chin near the crook of Hamura’s neck, rolling his hips mindlessly, almost teasing himself now. Hamura was so warm under him -- human -- hot all over, and he breathed out raggedly against him. He opened his mouth, laying the barest kiss, more of a little lick, really, on his neck.

“Capt--” he started, nearly moaning, before Hamura’s hand grasped at his chin and pulled him closer, kissing him. 

"Ride me," he said, "I know you're already wet."

He wanted to. Hamura's warm cock filling him as he stared up at him, like he was something rare, something worth coveting all for himself, sounded shockingly appealing. 

He lifted himself to pull the waistband of Hamura’s pants down just enough to free his erection, not at all surprised at the lack of underwear. 

He had prepped himself beforehand, as he always did now when he knew he had an appointment with Hamura. Normally, he’d still want more to ease his way, but he wasn’t about to kill his momentum now. He guided Hamura’s cock into him gingerly, nearly losing his concentration as the tip slid inside, making him gasp.

“Fuck…” he heard Hamura mutter as he pressed himself down onto him, the should-be-familiar pressure feeling different in this position, making him feel nearly too full. 

“Captain,” he gasped out, again, for lack of anything else in his mind. He lifted his hips once, up, down again, pressing his forehead into Hamura’s shoulder as he whimpered. 

“Move,” Hamura growled, sounding almost choked, fingers gripping at his thighs as Higashi followed his urgings -- up, then down, feeling Hamura bucking back to meet him each time. Once he figured out the rhythm, he pushed himself further, Hamura’s cock almost slipping out of him before his full length was forced back inside him, Higashi gripping tight at the fabric of Hamura’s jacket, biting his bottom lip and letting out a little strangled noise. 

He was so hot, burning, and Higashi was too, so close, chest to chest, inside him. Delirious, lost in the movement, he thought like this, he really was more Hamura than he was himself. 

“Faster,” Hamura urged, the usual slow and dirty talk he used to work himself up mysteriously absent today. Higashi tried, but each movement sent such bright waves of pleasure through him that he became uneven, sloppy. 

And then, before he could process it, Hamura had grasped his waist and turned him to the side, down, his back against the cushions of the couch and wrist pressed down with the full force of Hamura’s body weight -- but he barely registered the pain. He was fucking into him hard, as fast as he had wanted it before, and it was all Higashi could do to remember to gasp in a breath between the small noises he made with every thrust. 

There wasn’t a single thought in his head besides Hamura, and it was wonderful, wonderful. In the last year, had there been a single waking moment where he felt this clear? His free hand clenched and unclenched at Hamura’s collar, and Hamura came impossibly even closer, licking his collarbone, then biting, teeth tearing flesh, hard enough to make Higashi writhe, leg hooking around his waist and pulling him tight inside for a moment. He cried out, hot overstimulated tears leaking over and staining his cheeks. 

“Higashi,” he breathed over him. “Look at me,” and if he could have registered it, it did almost sound like a plea. 

He forced his eyes open a crack and stared up at him. It felt like it was the first time he had really seen him while they were like this, panting, and yes - desperate, drawing ragged breaths through his mouth. That ferocious, animalistic greed that had always frightened him felt _good_ , now, somehow, and he felt his own, nearly equal desperation rising.

“Higashi,” once and, again - “Higashi.” 

“Capt--” but he was cut off by a few of Hamura’s fingers sliding into his mouth, gliding in and feeling his tongue, the inside of his cheek. He lapped at them dutifully, sucking hard for a moment, just as if it were his cock, and his reward was another deep groan rumbling in Hamura’s chest. 

“ _Tohru_ ,” the quiet syllables, foreign to his ears, almost seemed like nonsense, didn’t fully connect until he’d already came, dizzy and breathless, lying limp until Hamura’s movements stopped too, and he felt the telltale remnants of his warmth. 

Normally, Hamura was away from him almost as soon as he’d pulled out, but he lingered for a moment, tracing up and down Higashi’s bare thigh. 

“Higashi,” said Hamura, and of course, that made sense, he’d only called him otherwise as a whim, in that heated whirl of pretended emotion. 

“Tell me something sweet,” he said. “Talk to me like I'm your lover.”

“I…” His mouth was dry, even though he knew it was a joke, a way to get him to roll over and show his stomach after all that impertinence. 

“Humor me,” Hamura murmured against his ear at his hesitation, voice a little thick from his earlier exertion. 

He was pretty sure he was flushed, and he suddenly realized his nakedness, even though he was still sweating, sticky, in his silk shirt. He’d never had a lover. He tried to think of what people said on TV and in movies, but he could barely recall even that. What did he want him to say? Stay with me, don’t go, that kind of thing? 

It was a little too dishonest. He couldn’t bring himself to try, even if his non-compliance meant igniting Hamura’s rage. He played with the leather band on his wrist, now unpleasantly damp, trying to turn it with little success. 

The triumph he’d felt at grasping that tiny thread of control was almost gone, leaving only the sensations of his sore, well-fucked body and heavy booze-laden head. He only ever felt this vulnerable around Hamura, now. 

“Thanks… for letting me try that,” is what he decided on, a little less formal than usual. Not exactly a sweet nothing, but, it was true -- it had made him happy for those brief moments. 

“You were sexy.” It was a quiet thing, but he regained a small scrap of that pride he’d felt before, at the fact he could be wanted. Useful, and not merely used. He couldn’t think of a way to respond, though, so stayed quiet for a few long moments, Hamura’s warmth all-encompassing, until he heard him sigh and start to stir. At least he didn’t seem angry. 

“I’ll clean up…” he began again, vaguely, and only released the breath he’d be holding when he felt Hamura back away.


End file.
